


Sheer Force

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, KNBxNBA, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:54:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: There is nothing quite so satisfying as blocking a late shot.





	Sheer Force

**Author's Note:**

> happy muramido 6/9! thanks val for the prompt~
> 
> (in this universe they're on the celtics together)

There is nothing quite so satisfying as blocking a late shot, some opposing player thinking the heroic second wind is on their side and going in, and before they can get it off denying them, the hard smack of the ball onto the ground ringing clearly through the noise of the crowd and the squeaking of sneaker soles against the floor. But it’s just a nice sound; it doesn’t mean Atsushi’s in love with it or basketball in general. Basketball is his job; he’s allowed to find good things about it even when they have nothing to do with Shintarou.

Though, while there’s a certain satisfaction Atsushi gets from the right kind of block, there are different feelings involved entirely when it’s Shintarou, playing out of position under the hoop, reaching up with that wingspan of his (the word wingspan never seems appropriate except when it comes to him, the way he’s light almost like a bird, the way his hair sticks up sometimes like ruffled feathers, the way he almost preens for Atsushi sometimes and pretends that’s not what he’s doing). The ball meets his hand, obstructed from the hoop, and falls; the sheer force of Shintarou’s brings it down hard, with the same velocity as one of his full-court shots (too fast to be true). Atsushi watches it roll; several players scramble after it but the buzzer sounds before anyone gets there, sealing the Celtics’ win.

“You could have gotten that rebound,” Shintarou says, as they make their way to the T. 

Only a few stragglers are milling around from the game; Atsushi tucks his hair under his beanie, not that it makes a difference. No one’s looking for them and no one’s going to notice until they’re in the brightly-lit train station, and even then it’s winter and everyone’s too preoccupied with being warm. A couple of giggly, drunk college kids pass them, on their way to who-knows-where; Atsushi bumps Shintarou’s shoulder.

“I didn’t need to.”

“Still.”

Shintarou bites his lip. He knows Atsushi doesn’t like when he harps on basketball stuff but he’s going to do it anyway; Atsushi sighs. He might as well hear it all. Nothing comes after that, though, just the good kind of silence, like when it’s rainy and cold in June and they’re in the finals and Shintarou’s pretending to read but really just finally letting himself relax against Atsushi. It’s dark enough for Atsushi to slip one hand into Shintarou’s coat pocket, but not so dark that Shintarou doesn’t see the face he makes when he realizes Shintarou’s wearing gloves. 

“Redundant,” Atsushi grumbles.

Shintarou shrugs. Atsushi doesn’t let go.

It’s not crowded until they switch over to the Red Line, a bunch of college kids just starting their nights out in Cambridge, tight clothing and breath stinking of cheap alcohol from pregames. They’re too absorbed in their own little worlds of loud talking and awkward flirting to notice Atsushi and Shintarou. Atsushi wonders if he could get away with kissing Shintarou when they go through a patch in the tunnel where the lights flicker above them; Shintarou’s look tells him not to try it, lips slightly pouted. Atsushi’s not patient, but he can wait until they’re back in the apartment  and the windows are open because the heat’s on too high and the neighbor’s shitty emo music floats in from across the alleyway. Atsushi sits on the kitchen windowsill, cups Shintarou’s face in his hands, and waits. 

“That was a good block,” he says.

“Thank you,” says Shintarou, against Atsushi’s mouth.

*

All of Atsushi’s good thoughts on basketball have flown away by the time they have to go to practice the next day. Yeah, they have to, but it’s too damn early; the sun’s only been up for a few hours and it’s cold. He groans, rolling over in bed and reaching for Shintarou to pull him back down. 

“Atsushi,” says Shintarou, his voice firm.

“We always get there early,” says Atsushi. 

“The T,” says Shintarou.

Atsushi smushes his face into Shintarou’s back, the impossibly soft cotton of his t-shirt. Shintarou sighs. 

“I’ll leave without you then.”

Atsushi rolls his eyes. As if he would--but he throws off the comforter and grabs a hoodie from the floor anyway. It’s easier when Shintarou’s not mad at him. 

They have time to stop at the Dunkin in the station; Atsushi orders his usual butter pecan iced coffee and Shintarou takes his own coffee hot and with cream. Atsushi steals a sip of Shintarou’s just to make him huff; it works like it always does. 

“You could get yours plain.”

“Yeah, well,” says Atsushi.

* * *

They spend the second half of practice doing defensive drills, mostly things Atsushi can do in his sleep without even trying a jump. It’s not until the end when they go one-on-one; the head coach is about to pair Atsushi off with their backup center but Atsushi moves closer to Shintarou, choosing him before anyone else can be selected. Coach looks at the two of them, shrugs, and leaves them.

“I won’t go easy on you,” says Shintarou.

“Good,” says Atsushi. “Don’t.”

He’s up on offense first, trying to force his way past Shintarou but Shintarou’s got a quarter-step on him, even backwards. No matter. Atsushi rarely gets the chance to dunk on Shintarou, and only slightly more so on players of a defensive caliber that high. Shintarou jumps at the right moment, but as long as they are his arms are no match for Atsushi’s. Shintarou glares at him as they wait to go again, but it’s kind of glare he gets when they’re deep in the playoffs and he can’t be everywhere on the court at once. Atsushi pats his shoulder.

Trying to defend Shintarou is a hell of an experience, too; they’re supposed to be going inside and Shintarou never drives in; he tries but even with all of his effort Atsushi keeps him out. But with Shintarou, that’s not really the right strategy; he dribbles back beyond the arc and takes a shot; Atsushi’s arm comes down through nothing but air. Shintarou’s expression is back to neutral, as if it’s not something to be enjoyed. Atsushi cracks his knuckles; if he can’t win on defense he’ll win on offense again.

It starts the same as the first time, Atsushi driving in; he takes the shot from farther back this time, jumps; he realizes he’s letting go too late just as Shintarou jumps, higher; the ball flies off Atsushi’s fingers but not high enough, smacking the top of Shintarou’s palm. The ball flies back behind them and Atsushi swears before they hit the floor, before the ball hits the floor, and Shintarou looks, for a second, as if he can’t believe it worked. Then he’s pushing up his glasses, adjusting his face into a familiar and irritatingly-smug expression. 

Atsushi drags him into the corner shower stall after everyone’s gone, ignoring Shintarou’s protests that he’d already gotten clean. They can do that again.


End file.
